Safety First

Subject: A man protesting against the impunity of the Franco regime .

large

***

TapaPies, the weekend tapas festival for the Lavapies neighbourhood of Madrid started tonight. So I took myself out on a second date with myself. Maybe I’d get invited up for coffee this time?

I had a prolonged siesta in the afternoon. So, feeling slightly guilty, and in order to prop up the illusion that I like getting out and about, I rushed out of the flat. I erased the signs of sleep from my hair in the lift and pulled down on the bags under my eyes to make myself look at least slightly conscious- I had a hungover of dimness from the most vivid of dreams during my siesta fiesta.

I took the usual route down to the square at Sol. A group of older people, holding republican Spanish flags and banners covered with questions marks and portraits of those disappeared and killed under Franco, wove themselves around the statues, both real and living.

I backed around the square with my camera, collecting leaflets as I went, before planting myself next to a lamppost, letting the protest flow past me (it’s called efficiency, I believe, or laziness). A man approached me, pointed at my midriff, slurring some beer-scented words. I pulled the old awkward stare trick until he shrugged and left.

I headed further south towards Lavapies and felt something tap my thigh. I looked down to find that my belt was completely unbuckled, the leather strap flapping suggestively as I strode along. Even the metal buckle had made an appearance from under my shirt. No wonder that drunk guy was trying to get my attention, he was trying to help a guy out. Maybe he assumed I was drunk, too.

I wondered what I must have looked like to oncoming pedestrians with that monstrosity dangling at my groin...

In hindsight, I realise that while walking through the Red Light area near my flat I was not once hissed at by the local women of the night, which was unusual. Nor was I approached by the weed-slingers who stand on the quiet corners of Lavapies and Tirso de Molina (a bit rude). So perhaps rather than looking like a leathery pervert, I had in fact cracked some secret code of Madrid’s underground scene. A floppy belt = no flyers, please. I already get my grass from Dobbies’.

I think I’m going to try it more often. Maybe I’ll even start a new trend at school.

I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow…